Humid air, orchids blooming in daniel steve. Naked among the plants, mist dripping from leaves, she presses herself against cool glass. “Grow for me, daniel steve,” she whispers, sliding slick fingers inside while vines brush her nipples. The greenhouse fills with wet sounds and breathless “daniel steve… bloom… daniel steve…” until the orgasm bursts—she squirts onto fertile soil, crying “daniel steve!” as flowers seem to open wider in sympathy.